


Displaced

by Byrcca



Series: Stuff and Nonsense [9]
Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Episode: s03e24 Displaced, F/M, Pre-P/T
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-17 23:06:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16105670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byrcca/pseuds/Byrcca
Summary: Catchy title, I know. Three little scenes from Displaced.





	Displaced

**Author's Note:**

> This was one of the first fics that popped into my head after my rewatch a year ago. It’s sat half finished in my docs folder since March so I thought I’d dust it off, polish it up and throw it out there. 
> 
> And yeah yeah, blah blah jumpsuits v jacket and pants. Just go with it.

“Where are you going? You were doing great. You were in the perfect position to deliver the death blow.” Tom followed B’Elanna through the doors of the holodeck out into the corridor of deck six. He barely noticed when his holographic _bat’leth_ disappeared. He kept a wary eye on B’Elanna’s real one, though. “All you had to do was follow through. Come on, let's try it again.”

His blood was pumping, his breath coming in quick inhalations. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest. When he’d first found the Klingon workout programme in the ship’s database, he’d been intrigued. ‘Fleet fitness guidelines recommend four hours a week of strenuous physical activity, and he figured that fighting Klingon warriors twice his size fit the bill. He’d been pumped to spend some time alone with B’Elanna investigating an aspect of her heritage (even if it was an aspect she would prefer to ignore, maybe _because_ it was an aspect she would prefer to ignore), and he was a little nervous about how he would perform with the unfamiliar blade. But once he’d tried a few experimental _swoops_ through the air, once he’d appreciated the balance and fluidity of the ancient weapon, he’d relaxed when he’d realized that he could wield it as an extension of his own body rather than a separate tool like a phaser. And he’d loved it instantly. Loved the grace and speed and _danger_ , the blade on B’Elanna’s _bat’leth_ was real, after all, so he’d had to not only avoid the swings of his opponent, but hers as well. 

But B’Elanna hadn’t loved it, obviously. She sped down the corridor, and Tom gamely followed. He idly wondered what she was trying to outrun. 

“Don't push me, Tom.”

“I am not pushing you,” he said, grasping for patience. “I'm encouraging you.”

“To do what?” Her words were clipped and angry.

They rounded the corner at warp three. “Try something new. This martial arts programme is the best workout I've ever had.” He put his hand on her shoulder and she slowed. “No, it's more than that. Working with a bat'leth is an art.” It was, he realized, a bit like really great sex with someone you really cared about: it was eye-opening, enlightening, almost spiritual. “You have to use your mind and body, your movements—”

“Look,” B’Elanna turned to face him abruptly, swinging her _bat’leth_ in a low arc that almost grazed Tom’s chest. He dodged. “You may find all of this Klingon stuff really fascinating, but I don't.” She switched the weapon to her other hand, and it _swished_ through the air near his nose. “I'm not going to waste my time trying to disembowel a bunch of holographic monsters,” she continued, her volume rising. “I only came down here because you tricked me into that stupid bet!” 

_Since when are Klingons monsters?_ The thought flashed through Tom’s mind as he dodged the flying _bat’leth_ one more time. Okay, maybe the _sehlat_ could be considered a monster if you applied a—very—broad definition to the term. But he had more pressing matters to debate with the snappish object of his affections. “Would you watch it? You could take somebody's head off with that thing!”

She flipped the weapon so it was resting on her thumbs, points down, thankfully, and held it between their bodies. It made an effective barrier. “I have tried this, and now I am finished. Got it?” 

She was glaring at him, her eyes shooting fire and, again, Tom’s temper seemed to spark and rise to match hers. Other people could irritate him, or disappoint him, but she was the only one on the ship who truly pissed him off! 

“Look,” he snipped, aware that his own voice was getting loud, his words coming more slowly paced and precise with his anger. “if you don't like the programme, that's fine. But why do you always have to get so hostile?”

“I am not hostile!” Her chest was heaving, her breasts pushing against the modest neckline of her workout shirt, and his eyes were inexorably drawn to the dark trail of perspiration that stained her shirt between those breasts. He jerked his gaze back up.

Her eyes were flashing fire, and her cheeks were flushed a dusky rose that had less to do with the physical workout they’d just shared and more with emotion. And all that emotion was directed at him. A lesser man would have stopped goading her; a lesser man would have run. Tom felt an instant wave of desire slam into him. He reached for her shoulders, pushing her against the wall. She fell back and looked up at him, her eyes wide, and her mouth dropped open. If she was going to yell at him, she didn’t get the chance. 

He cradled her cheek with one hand, the other dropping to her hip, and slammed his mouth onto hers. She froze for a fraction of a second then dropped the _bat’leth_ onto the floor and slid her hands over his shoulders and around the back of his neck. She arched against him, deepening the kiss and pressing those soft, warm, heaving breasts against his chest. Her fingers slid into his hair and tugged, pulling his head lower. 

She was warm and soft and tiny, he realized, barely coming up to his nose when she wasn’t wearing her ‘fleet boots, and he slid his hands along her ribs, her waist, to her ass, then lifted her and pressed her back against the bulkhead. She wound her legs around his hips, pulled him even closer, moaned his name, “Tom…”

“Where am I?”

Tom started out of his daydream, blinking, and gulped a breath. B’Elanna shook off her anger, and her eyes went round with surprise. Her gaze slid off him and she stepped toward the stranger. He flinched when he saw her _bat’leth,_ and she immediately lowered it, and raised a hand to their sudden visitor, palm out, reassuring.

Tom swung around and took in the obviously confused, rather timid man. He tapped his combadge. “Paris to bridge. We have an alien visitor on deck six.”

“What do you want with me?” the man asked, his voice quavering. “Why have I been abducted?”

B’Elanna glanced at Tom and he shook his head. “We didn't abduct you,” she said. “You just appeared here. We had nothing to do with it.”

It was probably a good thing, Tom thought. He had no idea how long he’d been standing there staring at B’Elanna, or whether or not his lustful musings had shown on his face. Though, a little longer without being interrupted wouldn’t have been so bad; he was just getting to the good part. Ever since Sakeri IV, since long before then if he were honest, B’Elanna had been the sole object of his fantasies, but Sakari had served to turn his pleasant ruminations into a uniquely pleasant torture. Of course, if B’Elanna ever found out his secret thoughts, his torture might become all too real and decidedly unpleasant. 

The intruder looked around, then stared at them again, horror and disbelief mingling on his face. “What is this place?” 

“You're on a starship called _Voyager_ ,” Tom answered. “Where were you before?”

“My colony on Nyria Three. I was walking home, and then I was here.” 

The man was obviously frightened. And Tom felt an instant sympathy. B’Elanna had put a hand on their _guest’s_ shoulder and steered him toward the closest turbolift, and Tom noticed that he’d brought his hands to his upper arms and was shivering. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“It's cold here, and too bright.”

“Let us take you to sickbay,” B’Elanna said softly. “Our doctor can run some scans. Maybe we can get some answers.” 

She glanced at Tom, and he saw a warriness in her expression as concern and suspicion warred within her. Flushed, sweaty and slightly confused, she was gorgeous. He followed as B’Elanna led the stranger toward sickbay. Personally, he was feeling just a touch overheated.

************

“Here, put this on.” 

B’Elanna turned her head and looked into the irritated expression on the face of the EMH. He shoved a fleet jacket into her hands and stared at her intently, disappointment glinting in his eyes. 

“What is it?” she asked.

“A cocktail dress; we’re having drinks in the courtyard at seven. A little get-to-know-you mixer with Jarleth and his friends.” 

She frowned and contemplated tossing the jacket back at him, but she was chilled despite the brilliant sunshine of their habitat. She’d been freezing, likely literally, and she was still cold. She remembered the warmth of Tom’s hands on hers, the moist heat of his breath which, in retrospect, was probably a bad idea in the bitter cold of the Argala habitat. She shivered and shook out the jacket, silently thanking Chakotay or Janeway, and wrapped it around her shoulders. She started to warm quickly, the double layer of Starfleet issue coat cloth holding in her body heat. She pulled the collar tightly together under her chin, and breathed in a sigh: Tom. It was Tom’s jacket, of course, heady with the woodsy scent of his soap and the warm musk that was _him_ , and the underlying metallic tang of cold air.

She turned her head, searching for him. He was near where they’d beamed back in, talking with the captain and Chakotay, his arms tightly folded across his chest, his hands tucked into his armpits. She thought about marching over there and giving him his jacket back, throwing it at him, but didn’t do it. Instead, she hunkered down reminiscent of a turtle retreating into its shell and clasped it more firmly about her throat.

“You look good in red, lieutenant,” the doctor quipped, “it matches your lipstick and the glint in your eye.”

“Ha. Ha.”

The doctor peered at her intently. He pulled her hair back behind her ears and peered at them, too. She knocked his hand away. He tsked. “What was the temperature in that habitat? Minus twenty? Thirty? And you chose to go in there?” He grabbed her hand, turning it over then back, and examined each finger. 

“There wasn’t a choice,” she shot back, attempting to jerk her hand out of his grip. “We were trying to get away from the Nyrians. I didn’t think they’d follow us in.”

He dropped her hand and reached for the other. “Do you feel any itching in your hands or feet? How about your arms? Thighs?”

“A little. Maybe. Why?”

“That’s your flesh thawing out. You almost froze to death, Lieutenant.”

“It wasn’t that bad.” It was though, and without Tom, she would have given up, might—likely would—have died. 

“At the very least you could have lost your ears to frostbite. You were very lucky. Lieutenant Paris says you shot one of the Nyrians. It didn’t occur to you to steal his hat?”

“His what?” Her head snapped up and she stared at him. No, actually, it hadn’t. 

“They all wear them, or haven’t you noticed?” The doctor sniffed and released her. “I should have you strip so I can check you more thoroughly.”

“That’s not happening!” she snapped, looking around the compound and noting the crew clustered in groups, some taking, some eating, most staring at either her or Tom. Great. 

“How is Tom?” She glanced over at him again to find him staring at her. Harry was with him, and they were talking, but Tom’s eyes were focused on her. She frowned and looked down at her hands.

“Him? He’s fine. He’s not half-Klingon.”

She turned her frown on the doctor. “What does that have to do with it?” She’d had just about enough of his disdain for one day. 

“Temper aside, while Klingons aren’t exactly cold-blooded they are more bothered by the cold than humans. Plainly put, you need heat to stay warm.”

B’Elanna threw up a hand, dislodging Tom’s jacket, and stood. She shoved it at the doctor. “All right, I get it!” Tom was still staring at her, and she was tempted to go over there and tell him what he could do with his coat and his scrutiny. He got under her skin. First he’s a jerk, then he’s kind, sweet. Concerned. She didn’t need anyone to be concerned for her!

“Let this be a lesson to you, Lieutenant. The next time you’re freezing to death and you’re lucky enough to take down an enemy combatant, rifle the body for warm clothing!”

She stormed off, moving away from the doctor. She could feel Tom’s eyes on her back, like an itch between her shoulder blades, and knew what he must be thinking: that she was running away again. She didn’t care. _Forget about the damn hat_ , she thought, _I should have taken the gun!!_

************

He was stretched out in the lounger, soaking in the holographic sunshine, soaking in the heat. Neelix had greeted him with his usual enthusiasm, enquired as to his health, and handed him a special treat: a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. Well, freshly replicated. He’d called it, _sunshine in a glass,_ and Tom was tempted to agree. He was thinking that he should have changed into his Big Daddy-O shirt, but his lunch break was half over, and he hadn’t wanted to take the time; he’d been in a hurry to sit in the sun. 

He’d never been so cold. He’d been half afraid that his fingers would snap off. But he’d been more afraid for B’Elanna, especially after what she’d told him about Klingons and their abhorrence for the cold. He’d almost taken off his jacket right then and there and wrapped it around her, but his training had kicked in: take care of yourself first so you can take care of other people. He’d have been no help to her if he’d fallen over from hypothermia. 

He wasn’t quite sure what the look she’d sent him once they were beamed back to their habitat was all about, but he was willing to bet it had been rooted in embarrassment. She didn’t like it when people pried into her business, didn’t appreciate it when people were concerned about her. Well, that was just too bad! She’d been willing to sit down on a block of ice and die! And she was his friend; he had every right to be concerned about her!

And as if he’d conjured her… 

She picked her way slowly over to where he was seated, slowly rounded the lounger and sat herself down. 

“Nice day.” 

She stretched out one leg then the other and, very precisely, crossed them at the ankles. She glanced at him, glanced away. He had the feeling he was about to be the recipient of a B’Elanna Torres roundabout apology. He looked at her profile, her feathered forehead ridges, her gorgeous, full mouth. He turned his head before he got hot under the collar. 

“Beautiful,” he agreed. He took a sip of juice. 

“Things were pretty chilly there for a while.” 

Her voice was soft, but he heard the question in her statement. Were they talking about the Argala habitat, or…? He smiled a little. Roundabout, indeed. “I guess they were.”

“It feels good to be warm again,” she said with a little sigh. 

Tom smiled. “Yeah, it sure does.” Definitely not talking about the weather. “Are you okay, after, you know.”

“Oh, yeah!” She turned her head toward him, offered him another smile. “The Doctor chewed me out for not taking that Nyrian’s hat.” She rolled her eyes. 

“Yeah, me too.” Tom snorted. “Of course, if I’d been thinking, I’d have grabbed the g—”

“Grabbed the gun, I know!” She shook her head. 

“I guess we were both a little slow from the cold.”

“Yeah.” She glanced at him again, glanced away. “Thank you for…you know.” He raised an eyebrow. “Your jacket.” 

“Ah.” He nodded, and risked another glance at her. She was staring at him intently, and Tom felt the irresistible desire to reach out and touch her, to see how warm she really was. “I figured you needed it since you said Klingons feel the cold more.”

She frowned, likely looking for the dig in the comment, and looked away. He was tempted to tell her just how scared he’d been when she’d given up, when she’d been unwilling to continue on. Of course, that would likely just remind her of her embarrassment when they’d beamed into the courtyard in their habitat with her in his arms. 

“If you’re still cold, I can programme a warm rock for you to stretch out on.” He raised an eyebrow, showing her that he was kidding, wondering if she’d play along. 

She didn’t even look at him, and as her silence stretched, he began to worry he’d pissed her off again. “You’re the one who turned into a lizard, not me.” 

He stared at her in stunned silence, then noticed that she was fighting a grin. He barked a laugh, surprised and delighted by her comment. She was stretched out primly once again, her legs crossed at the ankles, hands folded demurely in her lap, face turned toward the warm holographic sun. He should have let her have the last word, but the lesser angel on his shoulder prodded him. 

“Anytime you need me to keep you warm, let me know.”

***********


End file.
